chapter Two
Jenna was beset by nerves all day as she anticipated her date with Richart.
It hadn’t taken her long to tidy the apartment. Once done, she rearranged the kitchen cabinets and drawers, placing the nicest of her mismatched dishes and glasses in the front and on top.
She couldn’t remember a time when money hadn’t been tight. Her parents had kicked her out when she had turned up pregnant at sixteen. Her boyfriend’s parents had declared their child-rearing days over and done little more than give Jenna and Bobby, John’s father, first and last month’s rent on their first apartment. The two had married and worked their asses off, but—unable to afford health insurance—had accrued thousands of dollars in debt thanks to the medical bills pregnancy and giving birth had generated. Debt they had still been struggling to pay off when Bobby had been killed in a car accident three years later.
So nice dishes and pretty glasses had been beyond her budget.
Hell, the only furniture she had owned for years—other than baby furniture—had been throwaway pieces other tenants had left out by the Dumpster and an inflatable mattress.
But eventually, she had paid off the debt and managed to put away a little extra here and there until she had acquired enough to furnish the apartment with something that wouldn’t embarrass John when he invited friends over.
Or her. Richart had said he wouldn’t pursue anything amorous tonight, but she was nevertheless glad she had an actual bed in case something developed between them later.
Butterflies flocked to her stomach. She hadn’t had a date in . . .
Hmm. She drew a blank on that one.
Debbie had set her up on a blind date a couple of years ago that had gone rather well, Jenna thought, until she had mentioned having a son who planned to go to medical school. Her date had apparently mentally jumped ahead to marrying her and having to shell out a couple hundred thousand dollars in educational fees for a son who wasn’t his and had run, not walked, in the opposite direction.
Dating wasn’t easy for single moms.
The phone rang.
Jenna jumped. Shaking her head at herself, she answered. “Hello?”
“Hello.”
Her heart began to pound at the sound of Richart’s deep, silky voice. “Hi.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you.” Well . . . a little better, anyway. Though her stomach remained unsettled, she felt somewhat confident that she would be able to eat whatever meal he prepared without projectile vomiting it on him afterward.
“I’m glad to hear it. I thought I would run some dinner ideas by you and see what you think would be the most gentle on your stomach.”
So thoughtful. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”
Richart began to list entrées he could prepare for her. Clearly the man could cook.
Jenna didn’t know how half of the dishes he mentioned were prepared or if she even had the pots and pans needed to do it, so she went with the safest option. “How about the light salad and fettuccine Alfredo?”
“As you wish,” he responded cheerfully. “I shall see you tonight.”
When Jenna opened her door shortly after sunset, Richart smiled and decided that he loved yoga pants and tank tops. The soft gray pants hugged full hips and slender thighs before falling in straight lines to a pair of sneakers. A white tank top clung to a narrow ribcage, minuscule waist, and breasts he thought would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, which tightened around the handles of the shopping bags he carried.
“I took you at your word and stayed in my comfy clothes,” she said with a hesitant smile, stepping back and motioning for him to enter.
“I like your comfy clothes,” he professed, inhaling her sweet scent as he strode past into the small living room. Jenna plus a hint of the chocolate-raspberry soap she used. A delectable combination.
She had even worn her hair down. At work she usually pulled it back with clasps or ties or put it up in a ponytail. Tonight it fell freely in shining waves as red as the sky at sunset, tumbling across her shoulders and tempting him to comb his fingers through it.
No touching, he admonished himself. At least, no touching that might lead to more touching. She’s ill and you’re immortal and haven’t told her. Nor do you plan to tell her. So, what the hell are you actually doing here?
Giving in to weakness.
He hadn’t felt this drawn to a woman since before his transformation. She made him forget the dark violence that was such a large part of his existence and made everything somehow less tedious, so he actually looked forward to rising each day, eager to see her again.
“How are you feeling?” Richart asked as she closed the door.
“Both hungry and nauseated at the same time. I haven’t eaten anything all day because my stomach still isn’t right. But I think the Alfredo is mild enough to stay down.” She grimaced.
“What?”
She gave him a self-deprecating smile and led him into the kitchen. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’ve never talked about vomiting on a first date before. Real romantic, right?”
He grinned. “More romantic certainly than not mentioning it was a possibility, then spewing your dinner all over your companion as he leans in for a kiss.”
She laughed. “Thank you for being such a good sport about it.”
“Thank you for letting me cook you dinner.” He set his bags down on the counter and started removing the ingredients he’d purchased on the way there. “I should probably warn you that I haven’t been on a date in quite a while, so I’m a little rusty.”
Her eyebrows flew up as she transferred the cold foods to her refrigerator. “How long has it been?”
“Longer than I care to admit. My job and odd hours tend to make dating difficult.”
She nodded. “Being a single mom and working the night shift does, too. I haven’t dated in a while either.”
“Excellent. Then, if neither of us remembers the rules, we don’t have to follow them.”
“Sounds good to me.” She closed the refrigerator door and leaned her hip against it, crossing her arms just beneath her breasts. “Listen, I’m sort of a get-the-truth-out-there-so-when-it-comes-up-later-it-won’t-be-an-issue kind of gal, so there’s something I wanted to mention.”
This couldn’t be good.
She hesitated. “You know I’m older than you, right?”
Richart stared down at her and forced himself not to laugh at the irony. He may be over two hundred years old, but he looked as if he were in his late twenties, thirty at the most. And Jenna was worried that her being thirty-seven would be a problem?
“Honestly, I could not care less how old you are, Jenna,” he assured her, all the while calling himself a bastard for not taking the opening she had provided and broaching the topic of who and what he was. She valued truth. If he continued to keep it from her . . .
A hint of insecurity entered her features. “I don’t mean to press this, but . . . I dated a guy once—very briefly—who said the same thing until his friends found out and started to razz him about it. I’m thirty-seven. Are you sure that isn’t a problem?”
“I don’t know why his friends would tease him about dating you unless they were envious. You look like you’re in your twenties, Jenna. Not much older than your son, in fact. And, if you looked like you were in your forties, guess what. I would be just as interested.”
She smiled and closed the distance between them. “And if I looked like I were in my fifties?”
“Still interested.”
“Sixties?”
“I happen to think laugh lines are hot.”
She laughed. “Good, because I have a feeling you’re going to give me a few.”
“I should hope so,” he said, telling himself not to think about the fact that he would still look and feel as he did now when she was in her sixties, seventies, and eighties and all of the problems that would generate.
You’re getting ahead of yourself, old man. This is your first damned date. Not your engagement party.
“You don’t mind that I’m older than you. You don’t mind that I’m a single mom, putting a son through college.” She shook her head and smiled up at him, expression soft. “You’re a rare breed, Richart d’Alençon.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
Unable to resist, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers in a gentle caress.
Her breath caught.
Lightning struck.
Both their hearts began to beat faster.
Resting a hand on her waist, Richart tilted his head and explored those smooth pink lips that had drawn his gaze so often, then drew back before his emotions could take over and make his eyes begin to glow.
“Wow,” Jenna breathed, staring up at him.
“I am so smitten with you,” he admitted softly.
“I love the way you talk.”
“My accent?”
“That, too, but . . . I love the way you phrase things. Like the heroes from the historical romance novels I read.”
He cringed. Apparently, he was showing his age.
She smiled. “Don’t look like that. I meant it in a good way.”
“If you say so.”
Her stomach chose that moment to rumble and growl. Both laughed as she covered her flat belly with one hand. “Sorry about that.”
He shook his head. “Let’s get started so we can get some food in you.”
Hands down, it was the best date Jenna ever had. Richart was charming and funny and so sexy he took her breath away. Just as that kiss had. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And the man was an excellent cook. She had never been a big fan of salads, had always found them pretty bland, but he concocted some kind of homemade salad dressing that was absolutely delicious.
“How’s your stomach?” he asked, taking her empty salad plate and replacing it with one heaped high with fettuccine Alfredo.
“Doing good,” she responded with relief. The first taste of his creamy Alfredo sauce elicited a moan. “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook?”
“I taught myself.” He shrugged. “No reason not to really. I don’t know why some men balk at it. I love food and saw no better way to ensure I would always have a tasty meal at my disposal.”
“Smart man. I like that.”
He winked.
Her pulse jumped.
The front doorknob rattled as a key slipped in and unlocked it.
Aaaaaaand the moment’s over, she thought as her son opened the door and entered.
Jenna watched Richart with some trepidation. Saying he had no problem with her being a single mom was one thing. Not minding her son intruding on their romantic dinner was another.
John hesitated before removing his key from the lock and closing the door behind him.
Awkward.
Jenna smiled at him. “Hi, honey. How was school?”
“Same old same old,” he said with a shrug and a tentative smile.
Richart rose and, setting his napkin on the table, took a step forward and offered his hand. “You must be John.”
John set the tall pile of books he carried on the sofa. He often went straight from school to work. “And you must be Richart.” He shook Richart’s hand. “Am I pronouncing that correctly?” he asked, making sure Reeshart was correct.
“Yes. Richart d’Alençon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Jenna couldn’t gauge her son’s thoughts and had no clue how he felt about his mom dating. Such had rarely happened.
Richart motioned to the table. “Won’t you join us?”
“Oh.” Clearly surprised, John eyed the food with longing, glanced at Jenna, then looked at Richart. “Nnnno. No, thanks. I have some studying to do and wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“I made more than enough,” Richart tempted. “Please, sit and join us. Jenna has told me so much about you. It would be nice to get to know you better.”
Jenna stared, knowing with absolute certainty that Richart wasn’t simply mouthing platitudes to score points with her. He actually meant it.
Again, John looked to Jenna.
She nodded and smiled.
“Okay.” He started for the kitchen.
Richart followed. “Jenna tells me you attend UNC Chapel Hill.”
“Yes.” John pulled down a plate and turned toward the stove, where Richart waited.
Richart motioned him closer and began filling his plate.
John met Jenna’s gaze and raised his eyebrows.
She grinned.
John was almost as tall as Richart and still seemed to be growing at age twenty. His shoulders weren’t quite as broad and his physique was leaner, but his brown hair was cropped short like Richart’s.
“A friend of mine used to teach at UNC,” Richart mentioned.
“What department?”
“Music.”
“Oh, yeah? A guy in my study group is minoring in music. What’s his name? Maybe they took some classes with him.”
Richart smiled as the two returned to the table. Richart retook his seat at Jenna’s elbow while John took the chair across from him. “Dr. Sarah Bingham.”
John’s eyebrows flew up again. “You know Dr. Bingham? Carl said she was really something.” Something awesome, his tone declared.
Richart picked up his fork. “She is.”
Jealousy stirred as Jenna watched Richart smile with what could only be affection.
John tucked into the food. “Man, this is good.”
“Thank you.”
“Whatever happened to Dr. Bingham? She only taught there for a year, then disappeared.”
“She married a friend of mine and now works in the same business I do.”
John’s eyes widened. “Dr. Bingham works in private security? Doing what? She’s like five feet tall and weighs less than my mom.”
Richart pointed his fork at John. “But she’s a fierce fighter and could take you down in seconds.”
“No shit?” He darted Jenna a look. “Sorry, Mom. No kidding?” John was usually careful not to curse in front of Jenna. He thought doing so was disrespectful, and he would probably pass out if he ever heard some of the language she used when she was stuck in traffic.
“No kidding,” Richart insisted.
“Wow. You can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?”
Richart gave his plate a wry smile. “No, you can’t.”
Silence fell.
“So,” John began slowly, “is this weird? My being here?” He glanced back and forth between them.
It seemed weird as hell to Jenna.
Richart shook his head. “I don’t want it to be weird. I’m very taken with your mother. If I haven’t bungled tonight too badly”—he sent Jenna a flirtatious smile—“I hope to see her again.”
“I’d like that.” Had she said that too quickly?
Richart reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze, then returned his attention to John. “Which means I’ll be seeing you again, too, so I want us to be comfortable around each other.”
John eyed their clasped hands. “Sounds good. But it still feels weird.”
Jenna laughed and was relieved when Richart did, too.
“We’ll figure it out eventually,” Richart promised. “What courses are you taking?”
While John gave Richart a quick rundown on the classes he was taking, Richart leaned back in his chair. He stroked Jenna’s hand with his thumb, sending little sparks of electricity dancing through her, as he nodded and commented here and there.
John finished his meal and pushed back his chair. “Speaking of which, I need to go ahead and hit the books. Finals are coming up and I don’t want to wait until the last minute to cram.” He offered his hand to Richart, who stood and shook it. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Thank you for joining us. I enjoyed meeting you.”
“Me, too.” John put his plate in the sink, then gathered his books. Offering a final wave, he went to his bedroom and closed the door.
Smiling, Richart met Jenna’s gaze as he retook his seat. “I like him. He’s everything you said he is. And I see a lot of you in him.”
“You do?” John looked so much like his father. It warmed her to know there was a little bit of her in there, too.
He leaned in closer. “I meant what I said, you know.”
How could a man who didn’t wear cologne smell so good?
He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You have totally captivated me and I would love to see you again.”
“I’d like that, too.”
“Would tomorrow night be too soon?”
She smiled. “No, but I work tomorrow night.”
“How about an early dinner?”
“Sounds good.”
He nodded and glanced at the clock hanging in the kitchen. “I hate to leave, but . . .”
“Work?”
He nodded and rose, collecting their dishes.
“Don’t worry about those. I’ll take care of it.”
He frowned and shook his head. “You still aren’t feeling well.”
“I’m feeling much better.” She didn’t know if it was his company or the fettuccine, but she really did. “I’ll do it.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m sure,” she insisted, took the plates, and carried them to the sink. When she turned around, she found Richart donning his long black coat in the living room.
He was so handsome.
She walked him to the door. “This was nice.”
He nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing. I haven’t smiled so much since . . .” He tilted his head to one side. “Actually, I’m not sure. It’s been a long time.”
“Then I’ll endeavor to make you smile more often.”
“An easy task to accomplish. Just keep being you.” Leaning one shoulder against the door, he cupped her face in one large hand and studied her, his smile softening. “You’re so beautiful, Jenna.”
In that moment, staring up at him, she could almost believe it.
Lowering his head, he captured her lips.
This kiss was nothing like the one they had shared in the kitchen. It was no first tentative exploration. This kiss was explosive and intense, his velvety warm mouth sending her up in flames.
He slipped his tongue inside to duel with hers, tempting and teasing. One strong arm locked around her waist and drew her into his tall muscled form, pressing her breasts to his hard chest and washboard abs, her hips to the arousal that sprang to life behind his zipper.
Holy crap. Her pulse turned to molten lava. Her knees weakened even as she rose onto her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, burrowing her fingers through his short silken hair.
He ended the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, his breathing as harsh as hers. “I wish I didn’t have to work,” he murmured.
She nodded. Sliding her hands down to tangle in the soft material of his shirt, Jenna lowered her heels to the floor. “And I wish my son weren’t in the next room.”
He muttered something in French. “I forgot about that.”
Gradually their breathing calmed.
He sighed. “I keep telling myself to go, but I don’t seem to be moving.”
“I can live with that.”
Chuckling, he raised his head. “All right.” He stole another quick kiss and opened the door. “I’m out.”
With great reluctance, Jenna stepped back. “Okay.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly as he stepped out into the night. “Feel better.”
“I already do.”
For the next week Richart lived a dual life. He began each evening by having dinner with Jenna. Sometimes he took her out. Sometimes he cooked for her at her place. Then they parted ways. She went to work, and he left to hunt and fight bloody battles with vampires.
He thought about her all the time. Her laugh. Her smile. Her wit. Her delectable body pressed to his. He was falling in love with her and thought—hoped—she might be falling in love with him. Her face lit up when she saw him, as did his own, he was sure. They never ran out of things to talk about when they were together. And the passion building between them. . .
Richart was having a hard time concealing his nature from her.
Whenever immortals experienced strong emotion, their eyes glowed. That was damned difficult to hide when the slightest touch of her hand enflamed him. Hell, just looking at her made him want to rip her work clothes off and lick every inch of her body.
But he resisted the urge and, though he knew it frustrated her, was glad either work or her son frequently intruded and kept them from doing more than the most basic of passionate explorations. He just didn’t feel right about making love with her without first revealing who and what he was.
“Earth to Richart.”
Richart blinked and realized his Second stood in front of him, holding out two daggers. “Oh. Thanks.”
Sheldon shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Richart tuck the blades into the sheaths on his thighs. He was young for a Second, only twenty years old. Inexperienced. And not the quickest learner. But Richart liked him and appreciated the boy’s humor and teasing nature.
“When are you going to tell her?” Sheldon asked. He alone knew Richart was seeing someone.
“That I can’t see her tonight?”
“No, genius. That you’re two hundred years old. Don’t you think she should know she’s sleeping with Methuselah?”
“First, thank you for that,” Richart offered dryly as he grabbed a couple more daggers. “Second, we haven’t slept together yet. And third . . .”
“What?”
“It isn’t the easiest topic to broach. And telling her could put her in danger.”
Sheldon frowned. “You mean Reordon? He wouldn’t harm her, would he?”
Chris Reordon took his job protecting Immortal Guardians very seriously. “At the very least, he would interrogate and threaten her to ensure her silence. And if she didn’t react well and told someone else . . .”
Sheldon scowled. “No wonder Roland kept Reordon away from Sarah. But Jenna wouldn’t blab, right? I mean, you know her.”
“And Roland knew his fiancée several centuries ago when he told her. Did she accept him? No. She betrayed his trust, and he awoke the next morning to a mob wielding fire, wooden stakes, and pitchforks.”
“Wow. No wonder he’s such an untrusting bastard.” Sheldon glanced at the clock. “Almost time for the meeting.”
Richart took out his cell phone. “I really hate to do this. It’s her night off, and I didn’t get to see her yesterday.” But when Seth called a meeting, one didn’t balk at attending.
Disappointed, Richart dialed her number.